A Fall Evening in Kirkwall
by EvanescingSky
Summary: Fall has come to Kirkwall, for the few weeks it will last before winter takes over. Hawke pays her political boytoy a visit, but the weather has brought out Orsino's broodiness.


Fall was creeping into Kirkwall. It never seemed to last more than a few weeks before brutal frosts singed away any ambient foliage. Other cities in the Free Marches experienced softer seasons, but something about the way the air came up from the Waking Sea and the clouds down from the north combined to make Kirkwall a constant place of extremes. Thus, it was that the citizens of Kirkwall greatly enjoyed their few weeks of mildness between the icy winter and the sweltering summer. All about the city people were out shopping in the markets and bazaars, shooting the breeze under the golden autumn leaves, and pressing into taverns and restaurants for hot food and drink.

The Champion, for her part, spent a week and a half of Kirkwall's precious fall laid up with a broken foot. It did not stop her from hobbling around Hightown on crutches in the latter portion of the healing process, despite Anders' attempts to insist she lay still.

"She should be resting," he complained as Hawke and Merrill browsed a selection of scarves and gloves in the Hightown market.

"Try telling her that," Varric said.

"I have! If her foot heals wonky, it's not my fault." He folded his arms and glowered at the accessory vendor.

"Oh, hush. You know she won't pin it on you. Relax and have a mug of cider. You're

ruining fall."

Much to Anders' consternation, Hawke's excess of coin made it easy to flip a few silvers to someone to take her across the water to the Gallows—or it would have been, if he had been aware of it. She was on both feet by the time she made that effort—even Hawke wasn't keen to try managing crutches in and out of a boat. Keeping to his instructions to step lightly with that foot, she limped off across the square. Grace was out catching the fall air, and as was her habit, tried to bore holes through Hawke as she passed by. She was certain Grace had a preternatural sense for when she was about—the woman could find her to glare at without fail, as if Hawk were personally responsible for the state of Kirkwall's Circle of Magi. Hawke tugged her scarf back over her head from where the wind had blown it loose and ignored the vindictive mage as she crossed through the gate. To her relief, Meredith was nowhere to be seen—that was a risk she ran far too often, but Anders would have a fit if she was caught trying to climb through a window so soon after surrendering her crutches. She slipped into the First Enchanter's office without knocking.

The mage himself was at the window, staring out as if he could will the very sea to crash upon the Gallows and rend it to pieces. "Thinking about what it would be like to be a mermaid?" Hawke quipped as she shut the door behind her quietly as possible.

"Thinking about what it would be like to drown," Orsino replied flatly. He didn't turn to her, and missed the Champion's raised eyebrows.

"Feeling fatalistic, then?" She went up behind him to slip her arms around his slender waist. "What brought this on?"

"Everything," the First Enchanter replied. A pause, and then: "The weather."

"The weather's so nice today!" Hawke exclaimed, pulling away to sit on the edge of the desk.

"It is," Orsino agreed, peeling himself away from the window to throw himself down in his chair. Hawke swung her feet and studied his lined face. As someone who made a habit of refusing to acknowledge the stress on her at all, being around the First Enchanter—who exuded stress like a natural aroma lately—made her uncomfortably aware of her own problems. "Why do you stay here?" he asked at length.

"Well I'm hoping you'll take me upstairs and—"

"In _Kirkwall_," he said.

"Oh." Hawke shrugged. "I have a house here."

"Ferelden has been safe for years. You don't ever mean to go back?"

"Lothering is gone," she said. "And, according to a friend of my mother's, won't be rebuilt anytime soon. The ground is toxic, thanks to the Darkspawn." She should have written, to tell the woman that Leandra was gone, but she had never been able to find the energy.

"Still. It's your home country," he said. Hawke shrugged again and looked away, studying the floor over in the corner. Orsino's office was never as immaculately neat as Meredith's, which was all the more impressive considering Meredith had no magic powers of which to speak. The difference served to make Hawke that much more comfortable in the First Enchanter's office than the militant Knight-Commander's.

"Everything that made Ferelden home is gone now," she said softly. "Here in Kirkwall I have my friends, at least. Uncle Gamlen is here. I have the estate. Besides, what would it say to the people of Kirkwall if their Champion up and left?" She tried a little smile.

"Forgive me." Orsino ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed his temples. "I just struggle to fathom why anyone would stay in this confounded city if they had any other choice."

"Kirkwall is..." Hawke looked up at the ceiling, "...one of a kind."

"It's a pit," the First Enchanter seethed. "It consumes and devours and what it can't swallow whole it corrupts and destroys. What good is there left in Kirkwall? What was there ever? This city should have been destroyed when the Imperium was driven out."

"We've at least toned down the mass live sacrifices," she said. The glower given to her by the First Enchanter assured her he was not in the mood for her jokes and flippant remarks. "I'm sorry about what happened with the Templars," she said, chastened. "I tried to talk Ser Karras down. He refused; I didn't mean to fight him."

"It wasn't your fault." The First Enchanter slumped against the back of the chair.

"They push us into these situations where there is no winning..."

"But the mages are back safely," Hawke reminded him. "And no one's Tranquil."

"Thank Ser Thrask for that. I don't know why he's on our side, but I'm grateful for his help." Hawke considered telling him what she knew, but bit it back—a promise was a promise, and she did not doubt Orsino would use it as leverage against Thrask if he ever felt it was necessary. There were times she was wary of giving him weapons, particularly after the truth about Quentin came out.

"So what's gotten into you today then?" she asked, nudging his knee with her foot.

"Seems like all the usual doom and gloom to me. You really that upset about fall?" The First Enchanter sighed.

"It's nothing," he said. "Just the brooding of an old man." He offered her a tired smile, and Hawke nudged him again, affectionately.

"Just remember you used that phrase, not me," she said, returning the smile.

"I heard you were jumped by all of She last month," he said, folding his hands, ignoring the papers on his desk. Recalling wild stories that had circulated amongst the mages about her was one of the First Enchanter's favorite ways of entertaining her, and Hawke never ceased to be amused at the audacious tales.

"Psh! Hardly. It was less than a dozen, I'm sure," she said.

"So you didn't take half of them out by blowing up a mansion in Hightown?" Hawke threw her head back in a laugh and the First Enchanter's smile grew. "Champion, you're disappointing me," he teased. "Do you mean to say you didn't hire a necromancer to hex a gentleman you quarreled with at the McIvers' end of summer soiree?"

"Has everyone heard about Robert? I didn't _hex _him, he was a boor and happened to slip while crossing from the dock onto his ship a few days later. If someone else hexed him, though, I wouldn't fight them over it."

"Well this is terribly unexciting." Seeing Orsino smile made it impossible for Hawke not to return the look, even when she meant to feign imperiousness. Those kinds of lighthearted expressions grew ever rarer for both of them.

"I've been resting, as directed, so my foot doesn't heal crooked," Hawke said. "Do you want my toes pointing sideways?"

"I'm sure it would only add to your legend." This time, she kicked him, but couldn't suppress a little laugh at the indignant look on his face.

"I love that look," she snickered. "You are so good at looking offended."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means I like your face, First Enchanter," she said with an unusually guileless smile.

"Oh." Unprepared for that answer, he blinked dumbly at her, and Hawke thought she caught a hint of color in his face. "Well, I...can't fight you on that."

"First Enchanter, I think you could fight anyone on anything you wanted."

"I certainly have no desire to fight you, Champion."

"Why not?" she asked, sliding off the desk and folding her arms with a cocky grin. "I thought you liked losing fights." Certainly explained why he tried so often to reason with Knight-Commander Meredith.

"Where you're involved, that may be true," he said, raking his eyes up her body before meeting her gaze. Hawke's grin showed teeth.

"Why don't we go upstairs and wrestle then?" she asked, putting a hand on the arm of his chair to lean down into his space. "Unless you're too busy with work." The First Enchanter lifted his chin and held her eyes with a half-lidded stare.

"I heard you were injured, Champion. I wouldn't want to tire you out."

"Oh, don't you worry about my stamina, First Enchanter," she said. "I have plenty, just for you."

"Is that so?"

"You want me to prove it?" She bared her teeth in a wolfish smirk and saw the shiver go through the First Enchanter.

"A demonstration would be appreciated."

"Well, then." She stepped back and offered him a hand up from the chair. Orsino delicately placed his hand in hers, neatly painted black nails stark against his pale skin.

"How am I getting into the tower today?"

"Take the robes," he said, gesturing to the cupboard. "Use the scarf for your face—not the one you brought. Did you really think to blend in wearing a _red_ scarf?"

"Hey! I left my warpaint off," she said, digging through the musty cupboard for the erstwhile robes that had been her disguise into the Circle several times. Variety was the spice of life—and the key to keeping their ruse under wraps.

"Thank the Maker for that." She could hear Orsino rolling his eyes as she pulled the oversized robes on over her clothes.

"I'm not sure what's _more_ scandalous," she said as she arranged the hood and wrapped the gray scarf around her nose and mouth. "You having an affair with the Champion, or you having an affair with some young mageling under your care." She sniggered and tugged the scarf into place.

"Hopefully we never find out," the First Enchanter said, getting to his feet to don his cloak. "Or both of us may have regrets."

"Nah." Hawke's sly eyes crinkled above the scarf, showing her grin even when her mouth was hidden. "I don't have regrets. It's policy. I have enough baggage already."

"We should all be so lucky," the First Enchanter said, a touch sardonically, as he let her out of his office. On the way into the Circle, Hawke behaved and kept her head down, meekly following the First Enchanter in. He went up to his quarters and Hawke lingered around the ground floor, studying the Templars studying her and the other mages. When enough time had gone by, she went up the stairs herself. The higher in the tower she climbed, the less chance of running into anyone. When she reached the top, she rapped on Orsino's door.

"Oh, First Enchanter," she called in a breathy tone. "I simply _must_ have your help with something, it can't wait!" Orsino opened the door with a dry look. Hawke pulled the scarf down and flashed her teeth. "What entertainment would you have without me making an ass of myself?" she asked.

"I really don't know." He let her in with a shake of his head. "I think you have a little too much fun playing the helpless apprentice," he said.

"What can I say? I just need the First Enchanter's strong, guiding hand to help me learn," she said, dropping her hood, followed by the removal of the robes. She could practically _hear_ Orsino rolling his eyes—he did not grace the remark with a response. She stifled a yawn as he went to the windows, that brooding look starting to make a reappearance. "Do you have anything to drink?" She sat down on the sofa and—boots removed (she had already been scolded on this account)—drew her feet up. "Cider, by any chance?" The First Enchanter sighed with a great deal more annoyance than Hawke considered fair.

"I can have something brought," he said. "Or you can have the wine." Unperturbed by the First Enchanter's tone, Hawke insisted on cider. Instead of coming to sit with her after calling for the refreshment, the First Enchanter went to cleaning up the clothes Hawke had tossed over the back of the sofa and making sullen faces at various corners of the rooms.

"Are you still sour about the weather?" Hawke asked. Whatever had crawled under his skin, she doubted it had anything to do with the yellowing of the leaves.

"What were you doing today, before you came here?"

"Merrill took me shopping in the alienage," Hawke said. "We met Varric at the Hanged Man for lunch. I visited Fenris and Anders. I sharpened a couple of my knives. Why?"

The First Enchanter was staring through the windows again, thinking about storms or mermaids or drowning.

"You have such freedom," he said, folding his arms over his thin chest. "And yet you come here, where there is none."

"If you're angry with me, I wish you would just say so," Hawke said with a sharpness in her voice. "Maker knows I've done plenty to warrant it."

"I'm not angry with _you_." The First Enchanter shifted his weight and tightened his arms, keeping his gaze fixed out the windows.

"Then what?" she pressed.

"You make me see how small my life is," he admitted at last, bitterness leaking through like a trickle through a cracked dam. "My office. The Circle. These rooms. And you...you can go anywhere. Do anything. With anyone."

"Is this a...a jealousy thing?" she asked. "Because I'm really not going to deal with that. I have too many other problems, and so do you."

"No! Not about...that, anyway." He gestured vaguely back towards his bed. "Just..." He exhaled heavily, looked up, and tried again. "I never expected you to come back after the first time. A once-time curiosity. You needed the outlet. I could understand that. More than you might have guessed. But now it's...not entirely irregular. It's no longer unusual for you to be here."

"And?"

"And every time you come, it involves some kind of sneaking around, and we are so limited in what we can do, and with all the world out _there_, I can't imagine what keeps drawing you back here, except morbid curiosity."

"Why, if you wanted to _court_ me, you should have said so sooner!" Hawke snorted and the First Enchanter turned to frown deeply at her.

"I won't bother with this if you're not listening, Hawke."

"Sorry." Hawke lowered her gaze. Aveline kept telling her she picked poor times to make jokes, but her mouth seemed to have a mind of its own.

"I'm not looking for any kind of commitment from you—Maker knows you couldn't give it, even if you wanted to—"

"Hey! The hell's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"Not because of _you_," he clarified. "The Templars would never allow you to be here like this, Champion or not. You know the..._reproduction_ of mages is highly discouraged." Hawke scowled and her jaw tightened. "But even with this just the way it is, I would...give you more, if I could. Just for our enjoyment."

"I've never asked for more," she said.

"It would still please me to give it to you," he said. "You can walk through the market with your friends whenever you want, or meet them for a meal, or stop by their homes on your way by. None of that is allowed for us."

"Ah. I think I get it." Crossing her legs, she leaned against the back of the couch and tipped her head back. "It is hard to have a casual thing when public execution is on the table. And when you're basically under constant house arrest." No response came from the First Enchanter, and Hawke faced forward again, studying his back. "Sort of...part of what makes it exciting though, isn't it?" she suggested cautiously. "Sneaking me in and out of here, knowing Meredith would have conniption if she found out, having our little secret every time we meet in public..." Orsino turned to look at her and Hawke gave him a knowing look. "Come on, First Enchanter," she coaxed. "You like danger too, admit it. I can get you in huge trouble, and it's great." The hard lines of his face relaxed somewhat, making Hawke's smile grow. "Someday you'll let me smuggle you out of here so I can buy you that drink."

"Someday when I'm not responsible for all these mages," the First Enchanter sighed. "When the blasted Knight-Commander is retired."

"One way or another," Hawke said cheerfully. She held her hands out and made a laughable effort at batting her eyelashes in a comely way. "It's chilly in here, First Enchanter," she said. "My hands are cold." Orsino relented with the sulking and came over to the sofa to grasp Hawke's hands—which were not very cold at all—and give her a little warming spell. "My tits are pretty cold too," she added.

"Mm, that might require a special spell," he said. Hawke's laugh bounced around the stone walls and she leaned against him, putting her head on his shoulder.

"You put up with me like a real _champion_, First Enchanter," she said.

"You entertain me, Hawke," he said. "I welcome the distraction."

"As do I." Her toasty hands gripped his arm as she let out a sigh. "Once in a while I think you're right about Kirkwall," she said. "We could just slip out through the docks and forget this whole nasty place. Isabela could get us a ship. I've got my coin from the Deep Roads."

"It is tempting," Orsino admitted. "But..."

"Responsibility." A half-suppressed groan escaped her and she pressed her face into Orsino's shoulder. "I fucking hate responsibility." With Hawke's feckless attitude and wild antics, never mind the rumors, most assumed she _had_ no sense of responsibility, and she was quite content to keep it that way. Keeping expectations low, she told Varric. But if that were true, she would not have stayed in Kirkwall so long. She would not have joined a smuggling ring to pay her family's way into the city. She would not have personally hunted down her mother's captor. She would not have fought the Arishok on behalf of the city. She would not be there still, by Varric's side, looking out for her troubled friends. She would not be working with Orsino and the mage underground to subvert the Knight-Commander's hold on the Circle.

"It's a burden that never grows any lighter," he agreed.

"Oh, that's just what I want to hear," Hawke complained. "Don't you have any more comforting advice?"

"You do come up with more tricks for keeping up with it," he said, leaning into her.

"Does that include clandestine affairs with politically noteworthy citizens?"

"Absolutely," Orsino replied, bringing a chuckle out of Hawke. She was just starting to close her eyes when there was a knock at the door. Orsino left her side and Hawke flattened herself against the sofa. It was impossible to see her from the doorway, but there was no sense taking chances, not with the Templars chomping at the bit to make heads roll. When she heard the click of the door closing, she sat up and Orsino poured her a mug of cider from the pitcher. "Perks of being First Enchanter," he said, handing it over.

"Perks indeed!" Hawke smile and wrapped her hands around it. Hadn't she said something similar the first time she'd been up to his rooms? The First Enchanter sat again with his own drink and Hawke closed the space between them immediately, resuming her position pressed to his side. A contented sigh passed between her lips and it wasn't long before she had her head pillowed again on the First Enchanter's regrettably bony shoulder. "Cozy," she pronounced.

The First Enchanter made some sound that Hawke took to be agreement, shifting his shoulder almost as if he meant to put his arm around her, but changed his mind. Hawke took control of that situation, by throwing her legs over his lap to settle more comfortably against him.

"Why don't you ever go by your first name?" After a peaceful, pleasant silence, Orsino broke it with that.

"Hawke is my name," she said.

"Humans rarely have only one," he said. "Hawke is your family name, isn't it?"

"If you start calling me _Theodora_ I might have to put an end to this," she said.

"You don't like it?" Looking up to see his face wasn't necessary for Hawke to picture the little smile twitching on his lips.

"No one calls me that but my mother and the twins," she said. "Even Uncle Gamlen doesn't call me that anymore. I think my mother was still thinking like an Amell when she gave me that name." She took a sip of her drink, then smiled faintly and added, almost tentatively, "When Carver was little, he couldn't say it right. He couldn't get the 'th'. So he called me 'Adora' and that stuck for a while. Mother preferred Theo, but Adora was the one that caught on."

"What do you prefer?" Orsino asked.

"I prefer Hawke," she said. For a lengthy pause, she relaxed back into silence. Then, very quietly, she added, "But if I'm choosing from those, I prefer Adora."

"It's a pretty name," the First Enchanter said.

"Should've gone to Bethany, then." Orsino gave a quiet, disagreeing huff, but they said no more, just sat and watched the sky outside the windows darken and sipped their cider. Orsino had his dinner brought up to the tower, claiming he could not leave his work, and he and Hawke parsed it out while she complained he was too skinny and did not need her eating his food. It didn't _stop_ her, but she did suggest he take his meals more regularly.

When they did go to bed, it was not the exhibition of stamina they had been boasting about down in the First Enchanter's office, but it was sweet, and fun, and when they were done Orsino did not hesitate to put an arm around Hawke as they settled down to sleep.

Orsino didn't know what woke him—he was used to sleeping alone. It was impossible to say what time it was; the room was lit only by the dim light of the stars that made it past the cloud cover and through the windows. It crept in through the gap in the bed curtains, lighting up the empty space where Hawke had been sleeping, revealing her imprint there. He supposed she might have left—which immediately sent a pang of anxiety through him, much opposed to his protests about the Champion's remarks on his 'old man fussing'—but what could have occurred to her at such an hour of the night to make her leave immediately?

He pushed himself upright and reached for the curtains, peering out as he went to close them, when a shadow flickered oddly. Squinting through the nearly non-existent light, he saw the Champion had not left—she was there, by the windows. Perhaps she had just gotten up to get something, he reassured himself. But she did not return—it took him a moment of watching her jerky movements to realize she was pacing. With a frown, Orsino got out of bed and pulled on his silk house robe.

"Hawke...?" She did not respond as he approached, or turn to acknowledge his presence at all, just went on pacing back and forth before the windows. The numerous windows along the far wall of Orsino's rooms were made too narrow for even he to fit his shoulders through—in his more morbid moments, he wondered if this had been to prevent ancient slaves from throwing themselves out the tower and denying their Tevene masters their prizes. Hawke's breathing sounded unsteady, as though she were one of those in the Gallows with a rope around her neck. "Hawke!"

"What?" she snapped, fixing him with a savage glare, with eyes that reminded him ofthe wolf packs that prowled Ferelden's wild places. Instinctively, he leaned back, and nearly took a step away from her.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Not your concern!" Her feet continued their relentless, aimless circuit and she did not offer any explanation or other response. Orsino stepped in and grasped her arms gently.

"Hawke—"

"Don't touch me!" She wrenched free of his grip with energy wholly disproportionate to the amount of force he had been using. "Leave me alone!"

'What is going on with you?" he asked, but he moved out of her way.

"I just..." Her hands clenched and unclenched, and she came to a stop, breathing much too heavily for the pace of her feet. "I can't—" She paced a few more steps, threw herself down on the sofa, buried her face in her hands, and began bouncing her legs on the balls of her feet. "It's in my head," she whispered.

"What is?" It took Orsino a moment to remember the Champion was not a mage and therefore not susceptible to possession, which calmed him somewhat.

"Everything," she said in a tight, shaking voice. She raked her fingers back into her hair, quivering, and trying to steady her breathing. "It's like I'm still there. In the dungeon, or with the Qunari, or in the Deep Roads...It's like I'm _there_, like I never left, and I can't _breathe_-!" A visceral shudder wracked her body. Orsino moved slowly to take a seat on the sofa, keeping a good foot of distance between them.

"Can you breathe now?"

"I'm trying!" she cried. "It's stupid, it's so stupid! I know these things are all in the past but sometimes they just get into my head and-!" He wanted to tell her to focus on her breathing, but he imagined she had more experience with the situation than he did—there was unlikely to be anything he could tell her she hadn't thought of already, if it was a regular occurrence. It couldn't be _so_ often—he had never seen it before, and she had spent many nights in the tower. At something of a loss, he got up and poured another mug of cider. He cupped it between his hands until steam rose off the surface, then he offered it to her. Almost to his surprise, she took it, clutching it between her hands, pressing it against her knees.

"New mages," he said, "will sometimes have terrible dreams after their Harrowing. How long it lasts varies from person to person." Hawke didn't look at him, but he gave her a few moments of silence to process and then she said:

"Did you?"

"Not particularly," he admitted, shaking his head. "But I knew others who did." Hawke's fingers pressed against the sides of the mug and she breathed in the steam, letting it curl around her face. "It is not always a sign of weakness," he said.

"It's stupid," she repeated. "Those fights are over. I shouldn't still be thinking of them like this."

"Perhaps that would be true if you had lived through just one of them," he speculated. "But you've seen them all. These things can add up."

"I'm better than this," she said.

"Did you say that about breaking your foot?" She lifted her gaze to his and a wobbly smile passed over her face.

"You bet I did. I'm too smart to break bones, First Enchanter." Orsino snorted and took a seat beside her again, shaking his head as Hawke slowed the shaking of her legs. They sat in silence for—he didn't know how long. Then she held the mug out to him. "It's cooling off," she said. Accommodatingly, he put a hand over the mug, but with his other, he tried to take her hand, to see if she would let him. This time she did, and he removed the mug from her grasp, setting it aside to hold her hands, and give her the warming spell directly. Carefully, so that he did not overheat her; delicately, so he did not burn her. Hawke's fingers curled around his hands and she looked at the small spell as she looked at all his little tricks—with an eye of wonder, rather than revulsion or fear; with the assurance and trust that he could control what he was doing; with acceptance rather than rejection. Even other mages could be wary of each other, for all he had spent his life surrounded by others with the same innate talents he had. Perhaps her attitude was owed to the Champion's apostate father and sister.

Gradually, the Champion leaned forward until she could rest her head against his chest, and then she slumped against him, closing her eyes. Orsino's arms encircled her, wishing he had a spell for quieting her mind. Always, the Champion seemed invincible—but Orsino had always wondered: if half the stories about her were true, how could she be so unaffected? That should have been obvious, he though: Hawke was a good liar.

"I think I'm starting to ask a lot of a casual fling," she mumbled.

"It's a two-way street," he assured her.

"I'll accept that." Hawke rested in his arms for a few more minutes before pulling back. "This is really not good for your sleep," she told him with a reproachful frown. Yet again, he gave her a look of baffled consternation before the serious mask slipped off her face.

"It's not good for yours either, Champion," he scolded lightheartedly as they got off the couch, with Orsino trying not to let Hawke see him stretching the stiffness out of his back from the awkward position he had been sitting in.

"Yeah, but I don't have a choice." She took a sip of the cider and headed back to bed.

"I think I can handle one night," he returned, shrugging off his robe and replacing it on its hook. As he re-settled in bed, Hawke scooted over and placed her warm, calloused hand over his, lacing their fingers loosely together.

"Just one," she said.

"Well, we'll see."

"No, no, just one. Next time you better let me just tough it out."

"Sometimes I really can't tell if you're serious or not."

"Perfect."


End file.
